Ghosts
by fetch-thranduilion
Summary: Neither soldier should have survived. Now one of them wants to rejoin his commander, whom the other has orders to kill. But they'll have to find him first...MigRef. Preemptive sequel to White Nymph, but no prior knowledge necessary.
1. Chapter 1

What kind of a person posts a sequel before they've finished the first story? I dunno. An impatient one, I guess, or maybe just somebody who wants to get as much other stuff up before NaNoWriMo rolls around and all fanfiction halts for a month. So...here's the sequel to "White Nymph," though knowledge of that story is definitely not necessary to understand this one, and really there aren't that many spoilers either. Just know that Rephina is a character from the video game who piloted a white Alseides, was stationed on the Vione, and liked Dilandau. A lot. She also was supposed to die...but then again, so was somebody else in here...(I will explain my reasoning for sparing both of them to anyone who asks. Nothing like making canon breakage a theme of your overall work, heheh.) In "White Nymph" I gave her the Dragonslayer Ryuon for a cousin, as well as a part-Asturian bloodline and a past occupation as a merchant.

Oh, and for anyone very literal reading this...I have fun with time in here. Each of the three parts of this chapter takes place at a different point in time. But I won't say the order. ;P.

I don't own Escaflowne, either.

**Ghosts, chapter 1**

_Spring had come to the garden, blossoming forth in a cacaphony of flowers. Butterflies swept by the light breeze flitted through a sky quickly losing the sharp edge of winter. The world seemed smudged at the edges, silent and peaceful, with no hints that it had ever been otherwise._

_They stood together looking into the garden, fingers linked lightly at their sides as they watched the young woman reading under a tree. A butterfly perched in her silver-blond hair; an apple with only one dainty bite removed weighed down her free hand. Bringing the fruit to her mouth absentmindedly, she bit down; slowly she chewed, seemingly ignorant of the fact that she was eating at all. _

_The butterfly grew bored, it seemed, and meandered off elsewhere. Pulling her hand free of her companion's hold, the woman watching the girl turned her head to follow its path instead, a sort of wistful contemplation brushing across her sharp features for a minute and settling in her electrically blue eyes. The young man, deprived of her hand to hold, placed his arm around her shoulders instead, weaving his arm under her long blond ponytail._

_"He's really gone, isn't he?" Though she phrased it as a question, there was no room for argument in her soft voice._

_"We did our best. We made our choice. Even he couldn't have expected anything more, despite what he might have thought about the outcome." The young man, barely out of boyhood, stood half a head shorter than his female companion and so was forced to tilt his head up as he spoke to her. "I think he'll forgive us."_

_"I hope he's happy now." They were back to watching the girl again._

_"Was he ever?"_

_She shook her head. "I don't know. Looking back...I was dreaming the whole time, wasn't I?"_

_"Don't. I had the same dream. We all did. What's the point in regretting now?"_

_"There's never a point. It just happens." Bitterness crept into her voice, contracted her thick eyebrows. She sighed. "It's just...For a while, I could fly. With his help..."_

_"I know. Everyone could. He had that effect on people, despite all he did, and he didn't even know it. It was the best part of the dream to me." He leaned his head on her shoulder, watched the girl under the tree turn a page, carefully removing a caterpillar from where it had crawled up onto her book._

_"Too bad it had to end."_

o0o0o0o0o00o

The boy woke up after a sleep he couldn't remember. His throat ached something awful; each breath scraped itself along his windpipe with sharp edges certain, he thought, to draw blood. Adjusting his weight in bed, he winced as his left leg added its protests to those already being voiced by his neck. _This is not good_, he assessed mentally, not even bothering to scoff at his own oversimplification of the situation. _Wounded in several areas, can't recall how I got that way, alone in alien surroundings with no recollection of arriving there...he is so going to have my hide. Unless I can make it up to him somehow._

There, that sounded familiar. He rubbed his neck in an automatic thinking gesture and cringed as his hand struck a tender, swollen bruise. What had he been doing recently that might have merited...

"Oh ho! So the victim awakens! Good to see you up and moving at last. Pardon my moving you, but I didn't think you'd want to be taking a nap in the street during an invasion." The single most strangely-dressed man the boy had ever seen stood in the doorway assessing him, flashing him an earnest smile from under a pointed nose and ridiculous circular glasses. Flicking thick brown curls out of his way with a tanned hand, the man removed the glasses and exposed dark-lashed, dark-green eyes. "In the future, try to avoid Godashim alleys. They aren't pleasant places under any circumstances. You're just lucky I'm an observant man. How are you feeling?"

The boy tried to form a reply but ended up croaking instead as his maltreated throat burned. He grit his teeth at the pain, not wanting the stranger--whoever and whatever he was--to see him hurting. He was enough at the man's mercy as it was.

Catching the pained expression anyway, the man sighed. "Sorry. I forgot about that. Don't worry about trying to talk until you're ready. From what I can tell, you're lucky to be alive. What did you do, anyway? Not many monks try to strangle a man. You must have really set them off."

He had been strangled?...But that didn't explain the sore leg. Had he gotten into a fight? About what? With whom? In Godashim...the capital of Freid. Why on Gaea had he been in Freid? He was stationed on the fortress...

"Dragon," he rasped suddenly, bits and pieces beginning to fall into place. "Where...dragon?"

The man raised a scruffy eyebrow. "In the woods outside Fanelia, for all I know. Don't they live there? Or what's left of Fanelia, anyway. Terrible thing, that...why would anyone do something so horrific?" The grin was gone; sober, the man achieved a grimness the boy wouldn't have thought possible in a man who wore a bow in his hair. "For that matter, why attack someone like you? You're just a kid...Ah, don't listen to me." He waved away war and assault like they were so many flies. "I'll just depress you if I start up on that. And you need your rest. Call if you need anything, and rest as long as you like. It's a big convoy. There's plenty of room for you." A final wave, and he was gone, not even giving the boy a name to call his supposed savior.

He didn't care. He'd stopped listening anyway, after what the man had said about Fanelia. Self-indignation stabbed his gut; he clenched his fists in the thick covers, blankets finer than anything he'd ever seen before, but he ignored them. Horrific? It had been a bloody nightmare--just thinking about it, he felt the heat of the flames wash over him-- but bastardizing the invasion was going too far. Too far, and yet too near--for how could this man, whoever he was, even hope to understand? That same fire which swept through the forest kingdom would someday purify and heal all of Gaea--yet what did the people do in the face of such a fate? The residents had screamed; some had run; some foolish folk had remained to try and defend against their phantom attackers. And they had lost their lives for it, the fools. For the sake of their hell-hole, backwater, flea-ridden country, they had thrown away their godsdamned lives.

The idiots. He didn't need their death throes on his conscience, but he felt no pity for them either. When your leader was a weakling who ran the first chance he got, you deserved any disaster that followed from obeying him. Only a strong leader deserved sacrifices. Only someone who deserved his position, not any old hick who just happened to live in a very big house on a hill and whose family happened to own a fancy sword. The boy didn't believe in the importance of bloodlines. He believed in nothing but skill.

Thinking about Fanelia had brought his more recent memories, strangely enough, a bit more up-to-date. He'd pursued that same "hick" for the sake of the only other relic, sword aside, that made the kid even the slightest bit special...he had fought the relic and due to sheer bad luck--it had to have been just bad luck, he could not have lost outright--had been taken captive. His worst nightmare realized: being at the mercy of his inferiors. No help had come for him, at least not at first. He hadn't expected any, and he hadn't felt he deserved any. Then that...that _thing_ had come...and...

It was all so clear to him now. They had wanted them dead, hadn't they? His own side had used him and then tried to kill him after the enemy botched the job (his leg twinged at the recollection). They hadn't wanted him to return. To them, the minute he had been taken, he was already dead.

He began to wonder if anyone had lamented his passing before catching himself. Even if they didn't want him anymore, that didn't mean he was actually dead. From here, he could go wherever he wanted...yet the only place he truly wanted to be, could be, was on that fortress, with his fellow soldiers. He couldn't go back to his homeland if the military had declared him dead--once the mix-up was resolved, it would reflect badly both on him (for not returning to active duty immediately) and on his commander (for making an error--though whether that error would be declaring him dead prematurely or letting him live, he couldn't say). And he had yet to prove his loyalty. Returning even after his own supposed ally had tried to murder him--wasn't that a true sign of devotion?

But why get rid of him in the first place? If they were going to send down help, why not take him back with the creature? Because he'd failed, once again, to capture the dragon? Because killing him was better than letting him get imprisoned again? No one else had been deserted for failing in the line of duty...even those who had launched without permission...

That's right, they'd gone back for _her_, hadn't they?

Scowling furiously, he eased himself into a sitting position in the enormous bed and leaned his head back on a pillow, stretching the muscles in his sore throat and trying not to clench his jaw. It had been just a few days prior to his capture. The dragon had fled Palas after his commander had sought it out in the streets, and _she_ had launched without permission in an attempt to intercept their retreating enemy. One-on-one, she hadn't stood a chance against the dragon, not in that freakish white melef she piloted; it had probably been her first battle in the thing, hadn't it? The dragon had pummeled her into the ground and kept on going, leaving her for dead as the fortress should have left her, but no. They'd sent down a retrieval squad. _She_, who'd never even seen a proper battle and had ended up in the army by a sheer fluke and a bribe, had been cared for. Whereas he, who'd had to earn his position, had been strangled in the gutter by a freak of nature!

She'd been in almost as bad a shape as he now was when they'd brought her, unconscious, back to the fortress. Her cousin had fretted and fussed over her like some fool woman and not the soldier he was supposed to be, staying by her bedside until she woke up. He only left once, and that had been to report to the commander what had happened. And during his absence, that idiot cousin of hers had asked him to look after her!

He'd said yes, of course. Because as much as he hated to admit it, he owed the useless woman his position among the elite. If she hadn't made a fuss at the recruiting desk that day, the commander might not have ever looked his way. He still didn't know what he'd done that merited the commander's approval, but he wasn't so ungrateful that he'd deny she'd had nothing to do with it. The day he'd learned she would be stationed with them he'd attacked so fiercely during training his sparring partner had been sent to the hospital wing. Yet he'd received no rebuke. He'd never done anything wrong. Why leave him? The commander had even called his name when he went down! The commander _never_ acknowledged he paid attention to their problems in battle!

One shaking hand found its way to just above his heart, tried to clench the dog-tags and small gemstone that usually hung there, but closed over nothing but air. His rescuers had changed his clothes--that he'd noted upon waking without interest--but they'd also taken his I.D.. Which means they knew who he was. Which meant the strange man had been toying with him.

_Damn_! Why did everyone have to consider him some kind of plaything? He was a man--more than a man, he was a soldier, and an elite soldier at that! He was down but not out! So why treat him like he was dead or worse?

That did it. Wounds or no wounds, he was getting out. But his body had other plans: trying to get out of the bed, his bad leg buckled underneath him and he fell to the floor in a tangle of blankets and limbs, neck and leg burning anew. How disgraceful. But he couldn't get up. He could only lie there, fuming, as he thought of the peaceful expression on her face as she slept off her pain. When she'd woken up, her cousin had been there to hold her hand. Even the commander had stopped by to look after her, though mainly he'd just wanted to scold the cousin for shirking his duties. Yet here he was, in a strange man's bedclothes on the floor of who-knew-where, unwanted by his own army and betrayed by his own side. Being captured was enough of a blow. Did the shame have to pile this high?

His heart sank even lower as heavy footfalls heralded the stranger's reappearance. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered in such an ignominious position.

"Woah! Had a problem, there? Here, hang on." No, no. He didn't want this man's pity. If the only way to get back into bed was relying on that lunatic, he preferred the floor. But all the struggling he could muster wasn't enough to deter his rescuer--or was it captor?--from lifting him in surprisingly strong arms and gently placing him back on the bed, then smoothing the covers over him again. "I'd stay off that leg if I were you. It's not broken, but it got ripped up pretty badly." The man straightened, hands on his hips. "Anything else I can do while I'm here? Fetch a book, get medicine, whatever?"

The boy gestured furiously at where his dog tags usually hung, then pointed an accusing finger at the man. Surprisingly, the man caught onto the pantomime and pulled from a pocket the requested items, clinking the small jewel and the tag together as he shook them slightly. "You mean these? They were rubbing your neck. I figured you'd taken enough abuse in that area without getting chafed by your own ID. But if you insist..." The tags made a lazy arc in the air as he tossed them onto the bed. "Don't know what you can do with those, but if they make you feel better...Don't punish yourself too badly for whatever happened. I'm sure we can work something out with the army. They'll be glad to have you back, Miguel Lavariel." With yet another wave, the man breezed out of the room as nonchalantly as before.

The boy's violet-blue eyes bored holes in the doorframe where the man had been, yet he made no move to pick up the tags. So he thought he was so smart, did he? He thought he could just read a tag and think he knew everything? Well, that only showed his own ignorance. The most important item on that chain wasn't the small gold ID. It was the purple gem that hung beside it. That gem was his real identity. And the man would regret toying with one who wore the purple energist.

Wincing slightly, he leaned over and picked the necklace up, dropped it over his sore neck and ignored the tender areas as it scraped into place. He was stronger than that. He could take the pain, both of his wounds and of his predicament. The tag marked the injured boy as one Miguel Lavariel. The gemstone classified him as Miguel Lavariel, Dragonslayer.

o0o0o0o0o0

The girl stayed up through a night she'd never forget. She didn't need dreams, not this night. Not when reality had so recently become a nightmare. She didn't dare let her guard down now. If she tried to sleep...who would visit her in the vulnerable expanses of her mind? Her cousin, broken and bleeding before he met his final end in immolation? His companions, mercilessly slaughtered to a man? Or the one who'd stood by and let it happen, the one she'd trusted above all else?

By focusing on the betrayal, she could wall off some of the other pain. Yet she did not want to remind herself of what she'd seen. Of what she'd followed...and the lie it had turned out to be. Gods, it hurt to even think that. Even if she ignored the implications of her current cowardly position...hollow, witless scarlet eyes flashed before her vision for a moment, she could see him slumped on the ground; too shaken to even stand, he had fallen out of his guymelef and lay on the metal floor shaking before she finally had the presence of mind to come forward and try to help him up. She still didn't know if that had been the right decision. Because then those awful dead eyes had met hers, empty sockets of fear where flames had blazed. Where once there had been a god, she held what might as well have been a corpse. And in that moment, she had known: he had not avenged their deaths. He had taken advantage of some distraction or another to escape. And because of his cowardice, her cousin's murderer still walked free and unpunished.

She had no curses left for the dragon that had taken her cousin's life. All the venom in her body spewed out towards the man whose idol's patina had burned away in those blue flames--and inwards, towards herself. How could she have been so _stupid?_ She should have known no man could cut himself entirely free of the world, could soar to the heights she had envisioned him reaching. Leviships aside, humankind was not meant to fly. She had been a fool to believe that perhaps he could.

But then again, when had he ever been helpless before? Even when one of his own had been taken, he'd remained calm until the very end, then snuffed out the traitor who'd dared to mess with his unit. She'd known all along he was tied to his men, yet she hadn't minded that connection, saw it more for their benefit than his own. He'd let them borrow his wings in hopes that they could fly on their own one day...or at least that was how she'd seen it, dazzled by his brilliance and the honor her cousin had been given. Yes, they had all been blinded. But did he have to rip the curtains away so violently?

Jeture, why hadn't he at least _avenged_ them? If he was that much of a coward, how had he made it to his position? He'd avenged the prisoner...

Leaning her blond head against the corner of her barrack, she let anger at the dead man carry her along, finding it a much easier river to tolerate than the one threatening to drown her in her own shattered illusions. What had _he_ done to deserve such special attention? He wasn't a hero like her cousin had been, facing the dragon in a desperate last stand; he hadn't gone down fighting. Instead, he'd let himself be taken prisoner and then, when given the chance to return to his unit, had chosen instead to enter combat with the dragon--a choice she could understand, as it was one she had made--except he had botched that too. She hadn't exactly succeeded herself, but fighting an opponent in a one-armed melef? That had just been stupid of him. He should have just flown away, reported back, and lived to take revenge another day. The two situations--his and the one her idol had failed in--could not have been more different in her mind. The traitor of her heart had been fighting in a fully operational machine.

Oh, she had mourned the boy's death, as had her cousin and the rest of his unit. Their communications expert had been especially desolate--for a spy and a cold-blooded warrior in battle, the small blond took everyone else's hurt to heart a surprising amount. Yet she had found consolation in the fact that the murderer had met an equally sticky end, and that her hero had delivered the judgment blow.

She'd even given the unworthy fallen a token of her own. During the fortress's short stay in Palas, capital of her grandfather's homeland, she had disembarked briefly to help with restocking and purchased for herself a large bouquet of roses from a street vendor. An Asturian custom dating back to more seafaring times dictated that all ships entering battle or dangerous waters should have one rose on board for each crew member, to be cast into the sea should said member not survive the trip. The rose would reach the sea dragon Jeture, the custom said, and he would look fondly on the soul of the drowned. Many leviship captains kept roses on board in remembrance of the tradition, and though she was not the superstitious type it made her feel better having the bouquet around. She and Jeture had what she would call a rocky relationship, mainly because the deity seemingly refused to listen to every single plea she made, but residual respect remained after years of service to an uncle who probably would have passed himself off as a full-blooded Asturian if given the chance.

So she had dedicated a rose to the poor boy, tossing it off the side of the fortress as his commander watched skeptically. She'd been flustered upon discovering the man had caught her in an act of foolish sentimentality, but after she stammered an explanation to him he had merely smirked and gone on his way. His method of remembering the dead ran more along the lines of sending the killers, not flowers, to the gods.

Her uncommonly bright blue eyes squeezed shut thinking of that smirk and the broken man it disguised; one hand ached as the small purple gemstone she held dug into her palm. The stone was not hers; her cousin had given it into her keeping for the day when he considered himself worthy of it, ready to accept what it meant. He'd never get to wear it now.

They should have told her they were going. They should have let her come along. She might have been able to help...and if not, better to be dead with her comrades than alive without them. This, then, was why she'd been so loath all her life to tether herself to other people. It wasn't because they were tying her down, as she'd believed in her restless youth. It was because when the tie was broken against her will, the wound would never heal. And she hated being that vulnerable.

"Soldiers don't cry," she reminded herself, yet she was not a soldier. She was a tagalong who'd shoved herself into duty by circumstance, who they'd wanted for her guymelef and not for her own prowess. The melef had a better deal; it could shed no tears for its fallen fellows, could feel no anger as it hung alone in the hangar with its wretched red counterpart. So balled up in a corner of her empty barrack--a barrack that would not ever again be filled, come morning, by boys eager to wake their sleepy lieutenant up--Rephina Caina Jetura began to weep, shamefully, for the loves she had lost and the dream that had died.

o0o0o0o0o0

a/n: Up next--Miguel gets to know his rescuer a little better and somebody steals a rose from Rephina's bedroom. And she may or may not meet some cats. That may have to wait for Chapter 3.


	2. Chapter 2

I have absolutely nothing of interest to say. I don't own Escaflowne. (Now, Scherazade...nope, don't own it either. Actually, I can't even drive and really should be able to at my age).

Chapter Two...which continues the three-different-times thingie...

**Ghosts, chapter 2**

_The market was especially busy that afternoon, a trading convoy from Freid having recently arrived to barter wares with the shops of Palas. The young man ducked his head out of sight automatically at the sight of anyone with a bald head and orange robes; his two female companions mocked him mercilessly for the reaction. The younger of the two failed to grasp the joke--even after several months of relatively normal existence, she failed to grasp most things--but she laughed anyway, handing him one of the scarves she'd bought for adorning her own short ash-blond hair as a disguise. He accepted the gaudy fabric but did not put it on, sadness tugging at the corners of his blue-violet eyes as he observed her carefree smile. Try as he might, he could detect no traces of the one he wished for within that face. And the other man he wanted to find was nowhere to be seen either._

_A flower vendor accosted them on the street; the older woman bought a red rose for the younger at her insistence but would not purchase any more, even to adorn the table or to take home to the man awaiting them there. Shrugging the slight off, the girl flitted away to ogle jewelry she would never on her pocket allowance be able to afford, leaving the couple alone with their thoughts for a moment. _

_"So he's not here?" the woman asked her companion, who shook his head. "The merchant you're looking for?"_

_"I didn't really expect him to be. It's probably just as well. What would I say that wouldn't sound idiotic or ingratiating?"_

_"'Thank you' is usually appreciated by most people," she chided gently, tugging the scarf out of his pocket and--despite his protests--tying it around his head. Turning, the girl saw her friend wearing her present to him and beamed, twirling her rose in her fingers._

_The young woman smiled and let herself be pulled by the girl over to the jewelry vendor, early spring sunlight glinting off the purple gem she wore suspended from a chain around her forehead. "You see?"_

_The young man grunted and looked away. Gratitude was hard for him to express, and his companion knew it. In that matter they were akin. But betrayal...each knew all too well how the other responded to that._

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The next day, he could walk. Talking was proving to be a bit more difficult.

"Hhhuu ahhh..." Damn. He tried again, swallowing to wet his throat and trying to ignore the pain as his maltreated vocal cords screamed in protest. "Whhho--"

"Dryden's my name. Don't bother with 'sir' or 'lord.' No point in it. Here, use this." The tall, scrappy man pushed a notepad and pen over to the boy's end of the dining table. "I'm guessing you were going for 'who are you', right?"

He nodded, not without a touch of anger. A whole day had passed in which he had been confined to the insufferable bed, yet now that he found his strength was beginning to return he wasn't sure what he wanted to do with it. Part of him screamed to leave immediately, go in search of his comrades regardless of his still-tender injuries; more practical parts of his brain argued that until his health had returned, he remained vulnerable to any hostile forces he might encounter and so was safer in the company of this considerate, if eccentric, man. And hadn't the man sworn to return him to the army himself?...assuming, of course, that he was to be trusted.

Best to cut to the chase, then. Ignoring the shallow bowl of broth the man had given him to eat, the boy instead turned his attention to the notepad, scribbling down the words "What do you want with me?" and shoving it back towards the pad's original owner. Reading the note, the man cracked a grin while sipping at a cup of tea.

"Big words, eh? I understand. You're nervous, a soldier out of his league. All you types can think about is war and enemies, isn't it? Well, I'm not about to attack you or manipulate you for my own ends. I saw you needed a hand and happened to have one to offer." Spreading butter on a piece of bread, he munched noisily but continued speaking; the boy flinched at the indecorum. "As for what I plan on doing with you...if the world's condition will let us, I'll drop you off at the first Zaibach military outpost we find. Asturia's still allied with you?" The boy nodded. "Good. No problems there, then."

"But young master!" A beast-man servant the boy hadn't seen before came scurrying over like the mouse he resembled. "If we're seen dealing with the Empire, it might reflect badly on our relations with other nations, especially after their invasion of Freid! What would happen to our profits? What will your father think?"

"That I'm an irresponsible buffoon who can't keep gold between his fingers, as always," Dryden replied lazily, now finished with his bread and turning his attention to his own bowl of soup. "The old man will never see things my way, and I'll never see them his. You think we haven't made our peace with that? I'm bringing him plenty this trip."

"But not...the prize?" the mouse-man quivered.

"No. She's going where we discussed."

_Prize? She?_ How many abandoned people were on this convoy? Oh, gods, did this Dryden make a career of selling _people_? Barbaric! The boy gestured for the pad and was given it. Choosing his words carefully, he finally wrote down "So you're a merchant." Best to start small and work towards larger accusations.

The mouse saw the note as it passed from boy to man. "Watch your manners, boy!" he cried, ignoring the amused smirk on his master's face. "You mean you don't recognize the heir of Asturia's foremost merchant and advisor? This is Meiden Fassa's eldest son, the next in line by marriage for the Asturian throne!"

The boy stared. Dryden grinned. The soup spoon the boy had only just picked up clattered to the table. Numbly he tried once again to talk. "Th-the Ahhhhst..."

"I have the same reaction every time I have to introduce myself formally," Dryden admitted conspiratorially. "Don't take it too much to heart. The young lady in question has yet to bestow her consent upon me, and quite frankly I don't give a damn if she does or not. We haven't seen each other in years, anyway. It'll probably come to nothing in the end. So why get all worked up about it? Anyway, enough about me." Turning serious, he crossed his arms before him on the table and leaned forward in his chair a bit. "What happened to _you_? I didn't know your allegiance until I checked the tag. Where'd you get that armor?"

"Mark of an elite unit. Was a prisoner in Freid. Tried to escape. Failed." He had to cut his sentences short to keep them all on one page, unwilling to look like he was contributing wholeheartedly to the discussion. And there was no way he'd be telling this man about exactly which side had given him the strangle bruises. Trust only went so far, even with a man who might someday be a king.

Dryden, reading the note, nodded and tore off the sheet. "Doesn't seem like Freid's style, though. Strange...very strange...the guy got you from behind?"

He nodded grudgingly, not liking the direction this thought process was going at all. _He knows. He knows it wasn't Freid. Now it's only a matter of time...and then he won't take me back to Zaibach. Why would he? No one would accept a dead man back into their army._

"Damn cowardly way to deal. Reminds me too much of trading." Dryden finished his soup. "Well, Miguel, feel free to hobble wherever you like. I haven't got anything to hide, no matter what you might think."

_Oh, really?_ "Then what's the prize you aren't giving your father?" he challenged, shoving the paper over with a broad smirk plastered on his face.

Dryden's eyebrows quirked as he read the missive. "You're a perceptive one, aren't you? I like that!' He laughed loudly. "All right then! Come on. I'll introduce you to Sylphy. Here, need a hand?"

He did, but he wasn't about to admit it. Slowly, stiffly, but with dignity intact, he stood of his own accord and cast a defiant glare at the merchant (who merely regarded him over the tops of his glasses, completely unreadable). Wherever they were going, he would get there himself. He was a Dragonslayer, after all. Shame and weakness on his part would reflect badly on his commander, and he simply could not let that happen.

He began to regret his obstinacy as the sheer enormity of the trading convoy struck him, limping down a long hallway in Dryden's wake and staring wide-eyed at his surroundings. The fortress he'd lived in with the army had been dark and sterile, gloomy and oppressive; this transport seemed comfortable, warm, inviting. Almost like a home. He justified the discrepancy with the fact that Dryden had to make long journeys in his convoy and had the money to afford to travel in style, whereas his fortress was built for military maneuvers and not individual comforts. Yet he probably had spent as much time in there as Dryden did walking these halls...

"Here she is. Be quiet; I don't know if she's up yet." Dryden pushed a door open but stood aside to let the boy enter first. For the second time that day, the soldier goggled.

Sleeping in a tank built into the back wall, green hair wreathing her head and rippling with the water, was a mermaid.

"Wh--whha--hhooww..." he ventured, windpipe still disgruntled at being nearly crushed.

"It's disgusting," Dryden said flatly, and the boy had to turn his head and look at the merchant to see he wasn't referring to the contents of the tank. The man's eyebrows were furrowed over his circular glasses, obstructing his green eyes from view. "Look at her. Beautiful and individual as you or me yet some people think they can treat her like a pet or an artifact. A 'rare find,' she was described to me. They wouldn't have tried to sell a _human_ if they'd caught one!"

At the sound of the man's voice, the girl in the tank blinked sleepily; surprised to see someone accompanying him, she shrank back in fear, eyes wide in her pale face. Stepping slightly forward to compensate for her retreat, the boy's reflection glinted off the glass for a moment, and from what he saw there he couldn't blame the mermaid for backing away. His normally well-kept brown hair hung in odd angles in front of his face; bloodshot eyes stared out wearily from reddish smudges on his face; his throat was mottled with ugly, sneering bruises. He looked like a walking dead man, swathed already in burial robes: the merchant's loose-fitting robes all but obscured his body.

_But I'm not dead,_ he reminded himself, thinking of the purple gem around his neck. _I won in the end. He didn't kill me. _Trying to smile, he waved hesitantly at the girl behind the glass, not certain how to behave to alleviate her fears. She cowered.

"Easy, easy, Sylphy." Slipping his glasses into a pocket, Dryden slowly approached the tank. "This is Miguel. He got caught in a trap too. See? He's not going to hurt you."

"Hi," he croaked, dusky awkwardness flushing his cheeks. Taking another cautious step forward, he stretched out both hands to show he was unarmed. Curiosity flickered in the mermaid's eyes; her own hands rested lightly on her side of the tank. The boy placed his fingertips across from hers and smiled shyly.

Dryden chuckled. "She likes you."

"Whhaaat--"

"Am I going to do with her? She's going back to the ocean. No one deserves to feel misplaced."

Something clicked in the boy's head. Turning to look at the merchant, he regarded the man with an accusing glare. Dryden cracked a grin at the scowl. "Trust me yet?"

The boy turned his attention back to Sylphy, watching her hair billow with each fluctuation of the water and being scrutinized in turn. Despite the man's insistence that she was no different than a human being, the boy could see how someone would regard the mermaid as a trophy object rather than an individual in her own right.There was an otherworldliness in her bright yet vacant eyes, a streamlined perfection in her form not found in the blockier bodies of humankind, that set her apart in addition to the physical separation of the glass wall. But Dryden regarded her as a person despite the racial and physical divide. Dryden refused to see boundaries between others. To him, the boy was a person; country or military status didn't matter. Was he, Miguel, judging Dryden on his Asturian blood? Or on something else, something less distinguishable? The first thing he'd noticed about the man had been his informality...yet here he himself was, in the same robes with an even more slovenly appearance.

He tapped on the glass; Sylphy laughed, little bubbles rising from her mouth, and tapped back. Dryden sighed happily.

"Like I said, the place is yours until you've recovered. It might be harder to get you back to Zaibach now that the invasion of Freid's been formalized--" _when had that happened and why?_ "--but I swear you'll get back to your unit."

The boy nodded, restyling his hair in the reflection on the glass and making Sylphy giggle even harder. He had no more reservations about his situation, at least currently. Nothing could keep him now from rejoining the Dragonslayers. Not even, it seemed as he surveyed the bruises on his neck, his own "death."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The red rose was gone, and Rephina refused to think about the possible symbolism of its absence.

When selecting her bouquet in Palas, she had chosen to purchase mainly white roses, preferring them for their novelty over their more vibrant counterparts. Yet one man--heaven forfend, at that time, his fall--defied having even his rose the same color in her eyes. Everything about him demanded that he be set apart, and so she had requested a single red rose be added to the mix, a spot of blood in the snow. Never had it occurred to her that she would need to cast it aloft some day. To find it missing now...

She was being foolish. The rose had fallen out at some point, and she had failed to notice in time to keep it from being swept up by the fortress's maintenance staff. That was all. Best to finish her task and be done with it.

Carefully she selected fourteen flowers, cradled them in her arms gently and glanced wistfully at the now near-empty vase. How quickly the vibrancy faded with depletion. How quiet the fortress felt now. Headquarters had no doubt already been contacted, and replacements would likely soon arrive. Yet who could replace the best of the best? Who but her cousin could sleep in his bunk, sit across from her at mess, laugh at her frenetic polishing of her melef on the off-chance that someone might actually order her into battle? Who else would put up with some useless woman taking up space, wearing a uniform she had not earned with experience but tricks and her uncle's money?

No one, that's who. There was nothing left for her here now. Her tie to the fortress had been severed by the dragon's sword when he cut her friends down. Sighing, she plucked out the scrawniest rose left in the vase and added it to her load. This was war; she had nothing to look forward to but death anyway. If she didn't lament her own loss, who would?

Solemnly she carried her burden to the open balcony overlooking the plains. She didn't know what country the fortress was over at this point, and she didn't particularly care either. Let the natives, whoever they were, wonder about the thorny snow. Once something had left her hands, it was gone as far as she was concerned. Too far gone to be reclaimed...

One by one she commissioned her fellows to Jeture, murmuring their names almost prayerfully as each flower slipped from her fingers and into the clouds, lost to her view forever. "...Viole, Guimel, Dallet..." Had it only been yesterday that, wide-eyed, she'd stood on the bridge with her heart in her throat at thoughts of the glory they no doubt faced? Had it only been that short a time? It seemed like years, and yet nothing.

"...Shesta, Gatty, Kagero..."

Two roses remained of fifteen. One she let go almost carelessly, whispering her own name to the wind and blinking as the breeze whistled through her hair. Blasted wind. It was making her eyes water again...

One rose left. One soldier who she had to let go. Yet her hand would not uncurl from around the stem, despite the pricking of the thorns. It was such a simple motion, really. Ridiculous for it to be taking this long. Just let it go...let it fly.

The wind whipped at her again, more violently this time; she squeezed her eyes shut and flung a hand up to ward off the blast, yet in so doing lost hold of the rose in her other hand. The wind tore it from her palm and carried it away. By the time she realized she'd dropped it, it was already lost.

"Ryuon," she whispered anyway, staring after it and wishing it would somehow reappear, even if only as a speck on her vision. But there was no denying it. The white rose was gone. Her cousin was gone.

A thorn-scratched hand groped blindly for the jewel in her pocket. Should she let that go, too? What right had she to keep it when no others who wore its counterparts existed? It almost deserved a rose of its own.

But the ideals it stood for...did those have to die as well? Her idol had failed her, had led everyone she cared for to the most horrific deaths she could imagine. But did that mean no one could achieve the heights to which she'd aspired and which she had seen, wrongfully, in _him_?

She turned the violet jewel over in her hand, watched the light reflect off of it. Such a beautiful thing, to have been ripped from such a monster. The man who'd harvested the gem had done so with his bare hands while the dragon still lived, kept the jewel in memory of the event, and had broken it into pieces to give to his men as a symbol to set them apart. None of the others had known the gesture originated not in their commander's mind but in her cousin's; she had related an aphorism to the former man in a moment of supposed intimacy and he had plagiarized the idea shamelessly. "To slay a dragon is to stare down Death and win." Well, they hadn't lived up to that. Not this time.

By all rights, she should have thrown the gem away. But she could not do it, even though staring at it she felt herself twist with sudden revulsion. The only other surviving piece of the jewel was worn around the forehead of the man who had betrayed her, reduced like all his other belongings to an expression of vanity. Could she bear to keep with her any reminder of him after what he'd done?

She had to, she realized, slipping it back into her pocket. If she kept no memento, in time no one would remember the boys who had fallen the previous day. They would be mere names and numbers on a list of casualties, and she would never allow that to happen. She would keep it with her, then, and prove to the world that the ideals they'd stood for had not died as well. Position based on skill, self-sufficiency, taking charge...everything the unit had represented in her mind, she would become.

Yet she could not do it here, in the fortress where their ghosts lingered in every hallway she was accustomed to seeing them in the flesh. Would not do it in the presence of the commander who had failed his men. She had to leave, transfer, go as far away as she could. Let _him_ hear of her prowess this time. Let _him_ learn what it meant to be a pinnacle of mankind. All she'd seen in him, she would become. He would cower in fear before such a person, as he had cowered in the shadow of the dragon. White melefs would haunt his dreams forever. She would make it so.

Turning her back on the railing, silently she strode back towards the bridge to inform the leader of her decision. Replacements for the fallen would arrive sooner or later. She would leave on their transport, enter a real part of the war, fight in actuality. No more seeming, no more pretending. She'd be damned if she let the way she'd gotten into this army hinder her participation. Once she would have scoffed at herself, grinning wryly at the fool who thought all problems could be solved by a sword; now war was all that kept her standing. That fool knew more about existence than the cynic ever could: in the end, the planet's population fought dragons every day. Everyone stared down death and either won or lost.

That wasn't good enough for her. She would become the dragon instead.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

a/n: Next time: Miguel witnesses something he'd rather not aboard Dryden's convoy and Rephina, on her way off the Vione, finally has the promised "cats discussion."


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, so I cut the cat scene. It wasn't all that exciting anyway, and I reeeally need to get the plot moving in this thing. I got all caught up in providing reasons for all the changes wrought in Rephina's character by the war and...um...forgot about plot and stuff. I'm such a character nut. God, Fetchie, if you're going to analyze, use somebody more people know! (Like Miguel?...sweatdrop...okay, so people may know Miguel, but aside from DS groupies who really ever tried to do an analysis? Oh, and those of you who have, how's mine?)

**Ghosts, chapter 3**

_"Where's the scarf?" the girl asked innocently. Caught in the act, the young man feigned ignorance._

_"What scarf? I don't remember any--"_

_"I gave it to you," she replied, downcast and disbelieving. Surely, her eyes pleaded, you haven't forgotten already! "What happened to it?"_

_"Oh, that scarf. I tossed it away."_

_"You...you what?" She wavered on her feet, was caught by the young woman._

_"Easy. Easy. He just gave it to me." She produced the sought-after object from her handbag and waved it in front of the girl's face while scathingly glancing at the boy. "And he has a very mean sense of humor."_

_"Who's making jokes? I don't make jokes. She asked where it was, I told her. Simple enough."_

_"Hardly." The older woman cradled the younger, eager for consolation, in her embrace. Along the path, the girl's elder brother came running up to see what had made his precious sister seek comfort; he grabbed her from the young woman and pressed her close to himself instead. The girl let the transfer take place, but looked longingly over one shoulder at the disconcerted woman. She did not understand her brother's mistrust of her friends. She did not understand mistrust at all. Her friends could have written an encyclopedia on the topic, but she didn't know that about them either. Had she taken the time to think about it, she would have discovered that aside from their names, she knew very little about her two companions--their pasts, their reasons for wanting to always be by her side--everything remained a mystery. _

_It seemed natural to her, not knowing about others. After all, what did she know about herself?_

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"DILANDAU-SAMAAAA!"

The cry ripped itself from his raw throat, stung his eyes with tears and jolted him back to wakefulness; the world lost its reddish tinge and regained normality. His own shadow stared at him from across the darkened cabin; beneath him the convoy's timbers creaked in the nighttime winds. Another dream, the third since Dryden had left him...or was it only the second? The first time had been real, hadn't it?

It still didn't feel real, didn't seem possible that he had stood at that very window and watched the dragon--that same monster who'd captured him, broken his guymelef and robbed him of both his escape route and his self-respect--cut down, one by one, the boys who until recently had been his comrades-in-arms. How could Fate have been so cruel? Such coincidences just weren't possible. And yet...

He could still smell the tangy fumes of the burning crima, still feel the glass of the window pressed against his suddenly sweaty palms. Faintly he'd heard the two women talking--the beast and the Mystic Moon bitch--and he'd wanted to jump through his window and push them both to the rocks below. The cat had been dancing for joy. While on the battlefield below, fourteen of the most precious people in the world to him had had their young, brilliant lives mercilessly snuffed out by a killer too irresponsible to return to his desolate kingdom in its time of need. And he, like the dead soul they believed him to be, could only watch from above, unable to even shout a warning. The only sound he had made, ultimately, had been torn from his vocal cords involuntarily as he saw the white menace prepare a killing blow over his lord.

The dream always ended there--with the dragon readying its sword and his commander reduced to cowering. Over and over, he called out the name of the one man left whose opinion mattered to him, not caring that the inside of his throat grew slick with the scent of iron. He still didn't know what had stopped the white murderer, stained it a fitting shade of black, and finally toppled it. Of course, the pilot still hadn't died--he possessed an annoyingly large share of luck, or resilience, or some mystical dark magic guaranteed to save him at the last minute. So he still walked free. While Miguel was confined to his room, unable to fulfill his duty to the fallen.

Damn Dryden and his fiancee! Why had _she_ of all people had to show up to ruin his life yet again? Despite the presence of a Zaibach soldier on his ship, the merchant had let the princess's companions--included the hated dragon, apparently injured--board as well, then had had the gall to insist he, who had been there _first_, stay out of sight. "Don't want to cause a stir," the man had said, arms up carelessly as if to add "What else can I do?" to his sentence. Still feeling a bit indebted, he had done as he'd been told and sat, squirming with frustration, in his room. When he finally couldn't take it any more and tried the door, it had refused to open. Locked or jammed, it didn't matter. He was trapped, with the Enemy only paces away.

And now he was bound not for Zaibach but for Palas, hopefully with the intent of procuring a transport home from there--not that the odds of _that_ were particularly stellar given the recent events in Freid. Dryden had promised to pay for his passage back and provide him with a living, should he be temporarily stuck in Asturia. But he didn't want the man's favors. He wanted him to fulfill the godsdamed promise he'd made in the first place, instead of jetting off with Miguel's nemesis to parts unknown. So now that Dryden had a new toy, the one he picked up in the streets of Godashim didn't matter? He'd been a fool to believe all that stuff about how the man cared about him. First and foremost, Dryden was a merchant; he'd put his own interests first and side with the people who had something to give him. That was how merchants worked; he'd heard enough mealtime treatises in the mess hall, courtesy of the girl and her cousin (and occasionally the cousin's best friend, who had a bit of a dramatic streak) to understand that such people had abaci in their heads instead of brains._ Idiot. Idiot, to believe in the man. Only one man on Gaea should have been worthy of trust. You've failed him again, like you failed them all by just standing by._

Why had he just stood and watched at the window? He should have knocked the door down, or at least tried to escape the minute his unit had arrived. But no, he had frozen. Like some sick, twisted violence addict, his eyes had tracked each movement of each melef, soaking in the bloodbath completely blank-brained. It could not have been real. They were Dragonslayers. Dragonslayers didn't die...except for Miguel, the incompetent one. The failure who let his friends die right before his eyes and didn't even feel anything until it was too late. Then he'd screamed; then his head had been swallowed with a dull roaring sound; then he had woken up to Dryden standing over him, letting him know there'd been a change of plans. And so here he was. Alone, except for the dreams.

Gods, it was cold on the convoy at night. Why, the chill was making him shiver. He had to get up, move, stretch his injured leg. He had to do something!

But the time for action had passed. Closing his eyes again, he tried to push away his thoughts the way his eyelids could push the world away. He would hide in the dark until...no, he would never hide again, he was through with hiding! Whether behind a stealth cloak or a wooden door, he always seemed to be shielding himself from the rest of the world. He didn't have that luxury anymore.

Which left him with forming a plan of action. There wasn't much to think about; the plan wrote itself automatically. He had to meet up with his captain again, now that he was the only Dragonslayer left. He might never be forgiven for his failures, but at least he was still breathing--though admittedly not without difficulty. And as long as he lived, he had a chance to fix that life.

"Dilandau-sama," he repeated hoarsely, more softly this time, focusing on his goal. There was nothing he could do for the dead but remember. From now on, his focus had to be on the living. "Forgive me. I swear...I'll find you."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Kneeling on the cold floor, she avoided her commander's eyes, dreading the report she would soon have to give but knowing it was inevitable. Best to just start, then.

"General Adelphos. I searched for survivors, as per your orders. There were none." She hadn't expected there to be; not after what those alliance dogs had unleashed. Pure happenstance had saved her from the explosion: she'd been locked in combat just outside the valley Basram had decimated. She was still trying to sort out in her head exactly what had happened after that brilliant light tore open the sky. Something about a green haze...a voice shouting in her communicator that the battle was ended, no, the war...but she kept attacking and attacking anything that got in her way, free to ignore commands for some reason...free to do whatever she felt like...and then the mist in her mind had cleared and her captain's voice barked her back to reality. Then the patrol..and then the discovery. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other in her kneeling bow, grinding her feet into the dust on the once-spotless leviship bridge. Things like maintenance slacked off after half the ship had been blown completely away.

The general sank even lower into his chair. "I see. Such is war. Is there anything else observed which merits reporting?"

She'd intended to say _no_, to keep her find to herself, but the secret was slowly eating its way through her body and if she didn't let it out of her mouth, she feared it would devour her completely. "Sir...Captain Albatou's guymelef was discovered, completely wrecked."

"So even he fell." Adelphos sighed; though known widely for his disgust of the other man's tactics, he had been forced to acknowledge the maniac's skill. "Was his body reclaimed?"

"Sir, there was no body. The cockpit was empty. He abandoned his machine." _He ran away. Again._ "I landed to perform a more thorough search of the area and found this on the ground." She tossed a bundle of golden fragments at the general's feet. "Apparently he discarded it when he made his retreat." Among the broken pieces of yellow metal, a purple gemstone glinted. She wanted to throw it out a window.

"Albatou's headpiece..." The general picked up the shard containing the stone, examined it. "Any clues how it came to be broken?"

Her cheeks flushed; she bowed her head lower, tempted to lie but also somewhat proud of her actions. "Yes, sir. I...stepped on it, sir."

"From the looks of it, you stomped it into the dust," he mused. She bit her tongue. So she had ground the hateful thing beneath her heel. In retrospect, it was a silly act, expected of a slighted child but not of a lieutenant in the Zaibach Imperial Army. But she couldn't have left it there either, shining smugly in the dirt amid streaks of charred rock where another melef, presumably, had met a rather fiery end.

The general sighed again. "Lieutenant Jetura...you were stationed on the _Vione_ with him, were you not?"

"I was placed aboard for my uncle's piece of mind, as my cousin was made a Dragonslayer. After his defeat at the hands of Fanelia's king, my services were no longer needed there and I requested transfer to a place where I could actually be of use to my country," she spat, not bothering to temper her venom anymore. In reality, she didn't give a damn about being useful to the country. Being useless when her cousin had needed her...she had transferred to prevent repeats of such an occurrence. Or at least that was the mantra she recited to herself.

Adelphos sat up a little straighter at her words and the tone of her voice, scrutinized the young woman in front of him. "Stand, Lieutenant Jetura."

She obeyed but kept her eyes low, suspicious. Her frame shook slightly, but she forced her body erect, shoulders thrown back with carefully construed arrogance. She could only imagine how she looked to the man: on the tall side for a woman, honey-blond hair pulled rigidly into a high ponytail yet with two locks of hair swinging loose to obscure her face from view. Distinguished in her orange armor, battered sword hanging at her side despite the absence of enemies, hands clenched into fists to absorb the energy channeling through her form as she battled her constant inner foe, impatience. If she held her head up, the violet jewel bound around her forehead would likely reflect the blue torchlight and glitter in much the same fashion as did her violently blue eyes.

"How old are you, Lieutenant?"

"Nineteen, sir." Where was he going with this?

"You have not been with the army long."

"I entered at my current rank due to the unique situation surrounding my Guymelef."

"Yes, the supposed Ispano modifications. Well, that rumor seems to have held up under fire. You performed admirably in this last battle, Lieutenant. That is why I feel I must bestow upon you an extra task." His brow furrowed, conflict flickering across his pale, weathered face. "Assuming you wish to remain with the military."

"Sir?"

"Come, Lieutenant. You have fought with a tenacity admirable in the best of men, but with your cousin gone you have no reasons to remain with us, and you are a woman. The men do not like having a woman on their level."

"You're...saying you will not press charges if I want to leave?" _Yes. Gods, yes. Deliver me from this hellhole. Offer me a way out with my dignity intact. I've seen enough death for one lifetime; I can't be free here, tied to war and decay. Get me out of this swamp, where the things keeping me going are also what I most despise._

"I am saying that, should I give you this task, the minute it is completed you are free to resume a civilian's life. No officer or footsoldier will have the right to speak against you for your decision."

"The assignment, then?" Her armor began to physically chafe with her restlessness.

"This is not easy for me to say, but...you were not on good terms with Captain Albatou?"

_What? Back to him? No, no, I can't take this. _"We rarely spoke," she replied stiffly. "I do not know what his opinion was of me."

"You do not give your own."

"Is it relevant, sir?" Perhaps that was too harsh. But really, she hated confronting the mess that man had made of her life on her own; to be forced to admit it to her commanding officer, the only vestige of authority Zaibach maintained would be tantamount to suicide. She'd make it so and slit her own throat before admitting everything that had happened.

"It may be. Lieutenant Jetura, before I issue the orders I intend, I must know. What is your opinion of Captain Albatou?"

A bestial growl escaped her full lips, twisting her face before she could catch herself. Then the mask fell back into place, and in a tone completely devoid of feeling she reported plainly, "He disgusts me."

"Might I ask why?"

"He let his entire unit be slaughtered by a single opponent and, when given a chance to avenge the deaths, chose instead to save his own life. He pretends to be a paragon of excellence but instead clings to cowardice and codependence on others to maintain his own identity and reputation." She swallowed. "Sir, had Dilandau Albatou been discovered injured in his ruined melef I do not know whether or not I would have saved him."

"I see." Adelphos breathed heavily. "Then this order will not be as hard to take for you as I had feared. In light of the disasters recently befalling our country, the military is all that is holding the empire together at present. For a captain of that army to abandon his people and his duty is inexcusable, and I have not been blind to his other failings as well, but merely incapable of disciplining him further. Now I fear there is nothing to be done. At any rate, he is a symbol to the other nations of Gaea of all that is wrong with Zaibach. His violent and overreactive actions, especially as concerns maneuvers against Fanelia, have marred our reputation and must be punished accordingly. Lieutenant Jetura, effective immediately, your only orders as a member of this army are: find Dilandau Albatou and relieve him of duty. Permanently."

"You mean inform him of his court-martial?" He couldn't mean what she thought. It was unthinkable.

"You're making me say it? Fine. Kill him. I want you to kill him. Then your duty to your country will have been discharged and you may live the rest of your life as you see fit."

"I understand, sir." But she didn't; at least, she didn't want to. A wall had been erected suddenly between her emotions and her comprehension. This was not happening. She had _not_ gotten herself into a situation where she would have to see that man again...look into those scarlet eyes and then...

But she would be avenging Ryuon the only way she could, the King of Fanelia being beyond her power to handle; she knew better than to slay the leader of a country on a personal quest for retribution. She would finally get to see the man who had wrecked her completely get his due; Jeture knew she'd pondered it enough, alone in her barrack or her tent or even in battle, adding rage to adrenaline to fuel her combat. What's more, she would finally be able to leave. She'd always hated the army. That cursed man had enticed her into joining--into going out of her way to ensure placement--into killing everything good in her life for his sake.

So why should she be haunted now by those wide, staring eyes in her memory? Why regard them differently after months of bitter disillusionment? Hadn't she screamed at him when she was sure he couldn't hear her, separated by layers of rock and metal on the transport with the scientists? _"Shut up! Shut up!" _She had balked and nearly abandoned the transfer idea after learning he too would be leaving; "instability," the tactician had claimed. He was going to get help from the Sorcerers and then return. _"Now you scream! Well, it doesn't do them any good now!"_ He had no right to fall apart in her eyes, though it only further proved his weakness in her eyes. It made her no better than him, and after months of gazing upwards in adoration, then squashing him beneath her foot like she'd just crushed his diadem, she couldn't bear to have to see him on her level. Well, he was below her now, wasn't he? Now he was a no one, a nothing. Unwanted. Prey.

She bowed to her commander. "I'll depart right away, then. Is there anywhere he would be likely to run?"

Adelphos harrumphed. "Use your judgment. But if I were you, I'd start in places you knew well."

"Then I am off to Palas." It made sense: a large city where a single war refugee could easily blend into the background, slip into a crowd unnoticed. But he didn't have her advantages; he hadn't been a merchant running around those bustling markets for three years. He didn't know the culture or the right places to stay or how to survive on his own. She would start the hunt there, then.

And if she didn't find him...she'd keep moving. City after city, country after country; all of Gaea would recognize the white Alseides as its shadow slipped across their horizons. They would look up and marvel at the machine, at the cheek of the pilot fool enough to abandon her stealth cloak, never knowing that within the cockpit, neck-deep in crima, sat a woman barely out of girlhood, wide-eyed and muttering to herself despite the anger festering in her mind for months on end.

_"I can't do this...I can't do this...I can't do this..."_

She couldn't. She wasn't ready. Not yet. But, she vowed as she strode purposefully out of Adelphos's chambers, by the time she found her quarry she would be.

And then she'd see how much of a coward he really was.

o0o0o00o0o0o0o0

a/n: So now they're set to meet up! Yay! Oh, and a new player may be added to the mix next time as well...I haven't quite decided how many Esca plot bunnies I want to take apart and stitch back together as a part of this...so there MAY be an appearance of a Handy Transporter Pillar Of Light (tm), complete with passenger, next chapter. But it's not who you'd think...


End file.
